Again
by Time Lord of many names
Summary: Sometimes you're just trying to feign some reasons that won't let you open your eyes. Sometimes you just can't confess even to yourself that you don't want to open them.


**Timeline: **_«Dark Water».  
><em>**Music:**_ _«_Stay_»_ by Hurts.  
><em>

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><p>The Doctor can't stand when somebody lies to him. As a true fighter for justice, bearing an unbearable burden of guilt that he could never wash off on his shoulders, wounds left by endured losses that will never close up entirely, which from one can digress but can't ever forget, one can mend but can't ever get rid, he can't accept lie, choosing to find out the truth again and again.<p>

It was always like that, wasn't it?

The rule number one: the Doctor lies. He lies to himself, disclaiming the knowledge that already stepped softly into his mind, ensnaring it like a paralysing gas. Because it's too scary to be the truth. Because it _hurts_ too much to be the truth.

_Because it hurts._

Because it can be something different. Oh, there're so many things in the Universe — unknown and unexplored — to suspect bumping each time into matter you already know.

Sometimes the likeness is not enough. Sometimes stronger evidences are needed. Sometimes it seems to you that it only seems to be seeming. Sometimes you're just trying to feign some reasons that won't let you open your eyes. Sometimes you just can't confess even to yourself that you_ don't want to open them._

Because you're scared.

Because you want to run; to walk backwards step by step, feeling the venom of truth spreading through your vessels, filling every capillary — slowly and so painfully tough, pulsing into hearts, forcing them to go faster or to miss beats. Because they know that you know that she knows that you know.

_Because you know._

And you dart off running — desperately as though hopelessly as though on the brink of hysterics — to forget-forget-forget-forget, to not hear-not hear-not hear-not hear.

_Because it hurts._

Because it mustn't be the truth. Because asking the question you want to hear another answer. And she gives it to you — just once, as if she was tasting your endurance that readily holds on to the rope just thrown to it with all its strength.

But this is only a joke, it's not what was meant. And you still go on lying to yourself, like a physician that tells "it won't hurt" before hurting.

Thin web of fear entangles you insensibly while you do everything to prevent your thoughts from going back _to her_. Because you felt better only recently. Because this scar just stopped aching that much and that often. But she's already there — penetrating through your skin, sinking her teeth into you, making you lose control. Because you cannot but feel. Because you cannot but know.

Because you're a Time Lord.

_Not the last one any more._

Because it already had been. And it had been another time.

And it hurt too much to go through it again.

But you're the Doctor and you can't help asking again, knowing the answer; keeping on asking as if it would change it.

And when these words sound, like a last final chord of requiem to your lie to yourself, it's as if they stroke you a swinging blow. As if you were hoping till the very last moment that the Universe will have pity on you rather than tear open with a single graceful move the lips of the nonhealing wound — the testimony of intricacy of fates and feelings that you almost managed to disown.

Another lie, Doctor? A white lie to yourself, who would never dare _to forget _— only to pretend to. To hide it in the depths of subconsciousness as the most precious treasure or the worst of sins.

Because you don't want to get back, to fall again into soft and caustic embrace of what had been and what had been long ago. _And what could be._

Because there was too much pain in your life — in each of them.

Because you lack courage to take a deep breath and start all over again.

Because there's Clara to help, because there's a world to save.

_Because._

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><p>Because I won't survive this loss once again.<p> 


End file.
